But a Whimper
by Takigawa Aki
Summary: When strength's made a curse that never dies and sick men without solace, what is there left to do? 169 POST-ARCOBALENO CURSE


**A/N: **omg I can't believe I just wrote this. Hnnng. After a prompt from the ask10069 blog I'm now admin'ing, I had this idea and couldn't get it out of my head. Uuuugh, sobfeeeeest. Okay. By the way, the quote near the end is from T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men." Go read it.

**But a Whimper**

This wasn't how things were supposed to be.

How many dimensions were there that this had to be the one where it all fell apart? Sure, Byakuran could live with it; he had the solace of all his other selves, the knowledge of the worlds where it worked out. But the man before him didn't. The only solace he could have were memories of hell or of oblivion. But wasn't this hell already, this living death that crept up on them slowly like it was determined to drag them into the clutches they had so wickedly avoided?

Not that it was their choice. They were strong-willed-they had survived. They had passed on the pacifiers to the next round of suckers. What did Mukuro feel, walking through the prison on the other side of the glass? Did he feel sympathy, or a bizarre sense of deja vu when he looked into faces suspended in the tanks, hair floating freely, eyes closed as if in death? He had hated the Vendice-and now he was one.

But Mukuro was a survivor. That wouldn't be the worst part. He could adapt to his new place in semi-life, wrapped in bandages and glowering at the stone pacifier about his neck. At first, it seemed that the infant forms would be the worst of the deal, but here, look at them now...

Sometimes he couldn't stand to look at that face. That beautiful eye, blackened and withered, eaten by some encroaching stigma, a burnt pit of black flesh in a face that used to be beautiful. The swollen, black scars of the sickness spreading across his face, touching his blue eye and leaving it pale as milk, barely able to see, swelling a ridge across his nose, pulling the corner of his mouth into a permanent scarred sneer.

Look at that other cheek-rotted through to the darkening teeth, the pale gums showing. It was good they didn't need to eat or Mukuro would have starved. The muscle gleaming on his throat. His jacket was motheaten, ripped, hanging loose on his wasting form, the destruction of all the pride and vanity he used to have. When he moved there was a flash of white bone shining through his ribs. His hands were too wasted to hold his gloves and his rotting fingernails were bruised.

This was not how it was supposed to be.

But Mukuro was a survivor. Even without his vanity, he had his pride. Didn't he? Perhaps this living hell was eating at it. No, he knew it was. He denied pain, but he flinched when something touched his open wounds that would never heal. Sometimes it looked like tears, flecked with blood, gathered at the corner of his eye when his jacket pressed against his stomach. Byakuran couldn't imagine the devastation hidden beneath it. The rest of the Vindice hadn't had the same problem-they hadn't had the rotten eye. They hadn't been to hell.

But Mukuro had stayed too long. It wanted him back, and had invaded his body, and from immortal, scarred and strong, he'd gone to _this. _Sometimes Byakuran wondered how he stood on his own two feet.

He'd been one of the lucky ones himself. Besides a few scars, his face was nearly untouched. His shoulders held their same strength, the thick muscles of his arms, even a little bit of rosiness still in his skin. His wings were withered, the feathers rotten, but with that he looked more like an angel of death than a dead thing. His tattoo had faded and drooped, streaming down his face in a parody of tears as his skin let go of the ink. His hair was something closer to grey than white; his eyes had darkened to amethyst.

Still, he wasn't the same. But most of all, Mukuro wouldn't look at him. Wouldn't touch him. He flinched, yelled, hissed when Byakuran laid a finger on him. Sure, they were done now with intimacy, withered and something not quite men anymore. But it hurt him when he couldn't run his fingers through that long hair or try to look into Mukuro's remaining eye. He refused to cooperate, even when Byakuran caught him looking out of the corner of his eye. Sometimes he wondered if it was his vanity; then he thought perhaps it was the pain that came from being touched now.

Maybe he'd begun to come to terms with the fact that they'd never be whole again.

Was this karma? Probably.

Their strong wills were a curse. Where they'd taken solace and strength from each other's presence the rest of the cursed seven had died with the removal of the spell. They were the only ones to make it to this state of decay.

Didn't matter. A hundred years was long enough. A century of this festering, stinking, rotting, wasting pseudo-life. Maybe Bermuda would try to stop them. He didn't care. It was time.

-x-

There was the flinch.

Mukuro rounded on him, brushing away the hand on his shoulder, lips parted to say something cutting. A finger on his lips made him stop, brows furrowing. A bruise was growing around his eye from the spreading stigma; for a moment Byakuran wondered if he could even see through the cataract.

."What do you want?" he muttered. The bare muscle in his throat flexed with his rasped words. Byakuran winced at the sound.

"We're done, Mukuro."

There was a long pause where the man stood in front of him, looking up into amethyst eyes. Finally he blinked, a slow, resigned movement of his one eye, his gaze falling to the side. "You've got more time," he rasped.

"Doesn't matter," he murmured. The hoarse sound of his own voice was painful. "We're going together."

-x-

He wondered if the cold wind numbed the pain or bit it harder. But Mukuro would never admit it if he asked.

Their clothes, the unravelling bandages, the tails of worn jackets, greying hair all flapped in the wind. When something hit an open wound, there was a sucking sound as it was again torn away. Mukuro's eye was full of red-tinged tears that refused to spill.

"What if the cycle isn't over?"

That made Byakuran pause, looking down over the lip of the bridge. The distance to the water was dizzying. It glittered in sunset light.

"It has to be," he murmured.

"What if I go back to hell?" Mukuro pressed. His voice cracked. "This will be a waste. You won't be there."

"You've been enough times," he answered, "to guide me there."

"That's not how it works!"

"Our wills were strong enough to get this far!" He had to raise his voice against the wind. "We'll force hell open if we have to." Because they sure weren't going to heaven.

For a long moment Mukuro was quiet.

"What if there's nothing after?"

"Then it's over."

"Tell me about the others."

Byakuran took a slow breath. He hadn't asked that in decades. "Sometimes," he said softly, leaning into his ear so the wind wouldn't whip away the words. "we rule the world together. Or travel it our entire lives. Or spend eternity without the curse." A little nod encouraged him to continue. "Sometimes we meet young and spend all our lives looking for each other again. Or we destroy the world and go out with a bang."

That face turned towards him again, and he gasped. Hair gleamed in the waning light; he caught a flash of a scarlet eye and unblemished skin.

Illusions hurt him lately. What was this doing to him? But he didn't look pained.

A glimpse down at himself showed his favourite outfit from their time before the curse. He thought he saw perfect white hair in the corner of his eye. Like none of it had ever happened.

"Not with a bang," Mukuro murmured, "but a whimper."

"Don't let go."

The hand in his was firm. "I don't want to go to hell."

"If you do, I'll be there with you."

They didn't say the three words hanging in the air. They didn't need to.

Locked hand in hand, they fell.


End file.
